


Dead Winter Winds

by The_Changamire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Independent North (ASoIaF), Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is an Other, Jon Snow is the 13th Lord Commander Reborn, Kind of a Stark Wank, Kinda, King Jon Snow, Multi, Reincarnation, The Army of the Dead, The King in The North, White Walker Jon Snow, but not really, winter is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Changamire/pseuds/The_Changamire
Summary: There were rumors, at first, dark rumors, that spoke of the new King of Winter, the Stark in Winterfell. Rumors that spoke of necromancy and witchcraft, magiks surpassing even the Shadowbinders of Asshai. Rumors that spoke of a Queen of non-human origins, with eyes like ice and an army of corpses.They were ignored, of course, dismissed as Northern wives-tales and barbaric folklore by the Southron Queens and lords.It was only when Winter fell upon them that they realized they had been fools to do so.ORWhile the lords and ladies of the South feud over a throne of iron, a new King and Queen rise in the North, backed by the fury of dead Winter winds.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Corpse Queen/Jon Snow, Corpse Queen/Night's King (ASoIaF), Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Meera Reed/Bran Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 134





	1. From the Lofty Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [King Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/728658) by Jiaory. 



For a split second, Jon almost didn’t recognize the fact that a blade had just been plunged into his heart. 

It was only when his eyes shot towards his chest did he feel the burning pain that accompanied it. He staggered back, trying to put space between him and his assaulters, the traitorous mutineers that he had thought his _brothers_ \--

Only to take another silent dagger to the torso.

Followed by another.

And another.

And another.

And on and on it went, and where Jon found that he was soon kneeling where he had been standing moments before.

“ _For the Watch_ ,” they said, and Jon wanted to scream at them. Could they not see that all he had done, negotiating with the Free Folk and letting them through the Wall, he had done not only for the Watch, but for all the realms of the living?

…

Mayhaps, it did not matter, anymore. The realm of the living was one he would not be able to claim as home for much longer.

The thrust of blades halted soon after he fell to his knees, and for a moment, Jon’s delirious and pain-ridden mind thought that the mutineers had come to the realization that what they were doing was a mistake, and had halted their assault in some vain hope of his survival. That fleeting thought went out the window when the crowd of Black Brothers parted, letting through…

Oh.

There was silence for a moment, and Jon looked up towards the lad he had taken as his steward, the same boy who’d fought besides him in Castle Black, and the same one who had killed Ygritte.

He might have felt rage and betrayal at the cold look on Olly’s face, but now he was simply to tired to do so.

“Ghost…”

And then the final knife was shoved into his bloodied chest, and his heart ceased to beat. 

He didn’t feel it, oddly. He only felt the cold.

The Nine-Hundred-and-Ninety-Eighth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch fell back, dead.

* * *

_The Thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch first saw her whilst patrolling atop the Wall._

_It had been nary a glimpse out of the corner of his eye at first, so fleeting that he almost thought it imagined. The second time was when first time he realized that, indeed, there was someone below staring at him, watching him._

_He only beheld her for several moments before she disappeared in a northern gust of icy wind, but that was more than enough to ignite his curiosity._

_From then on, he timed his patrols to perfectly match the appearances, always making sure to be in the same place as before, and slowly, the fruits of his labor began to pay off. The otherworldly woman stayed in sight for longer and longer, her gaze ever-steadfast in its vigil watching him, as he watched her._

_Some might have called it witchcraft, what happened after, but slowly, and surely, the Lord Commander came to love the woman he viewed from afar._

_And then, one day, she had made to turn away and disappear back into the Haunted Forest, as she did upon the end of her visitations, only…_

_She hesitated._

_Then she turned, looked to him again, and_ ** _beckoned_ ** _._

_He had stood frozen in disbelief at first, before hastily abandoning his post and making for the lift. All the way down, he worried that she might again escape his sight, for the time spent being lowered from the Wall felt far too long to the Stark Lord Commander, thought he would soon realize that his fear had been for naught._

_Ignoring the concerned looks his Black Brothers gave him when he gave the order to open the gate and not to follow, the Thirteenth Lord Commander mounted his pale steed and sett off at a gallop through the gate, and out into the Lands of Always Winter._

_Once again, he feared that he had failed in his_ **_ẗ̸̠́a̶̯͂s̷̜͑k̵̼̾d̵͔̄u̸̖͋ţ̴̋y̶͖̒w̷̰̍i̸̼͐s̴͉h̸̯̚n̴͍͝e̷̘͠e̸̲̾d̸͔̔want_ ** _to find her, only for it to be alleviated when she appeared at the edge of the Haunted Forest. Even from his position several yards away, he could see her lips twisting into a seductive smile._

**_Come_ ** _, she beckoned again,_ **_Chase me._ ** _And she disappeared into the woods behind her._

_The Lord Commander spurred his horse and did as she bade him._

_The chase, which was little more than a mummers farce, something both knew and enjoyed, eventually took the Lord Commander to a small clearing in the middle of the foreboding forest, though he had no fear._

_For there, waiting, as naked as a newborn babe, was the one he had sought._

_Dismounting, the Lord Commander slowly made his way towards her, all the while undressing himself. Oddly enough, the cold did not bother him, but, then again, why would it?_ She _was cold, and beautiful beyond compare, and if she was cold, he would not hide from it._

_And, when he finally reached her, he fulfilled his duty, the pact that had been made centuries ago._

_Underneath the Northern Lights, Night’s King made love to his Corpse Queen._

_Later, as they lay in the afterglow of their coupling, the Lord Commander’s Queen cupped his cheek in her soft, cold hands._ **_Mine,_** _she had said._ ** _To fulfill the Pact. A Stark husband for an Other bride._ **

_As if the words had sparked something in his mind, ancestral memories ignited within the mind of the Night’s King, of an agreement so old that the stones they had been scribed upon had been chiseled to sand and the minds of the men that recalled it turned to mush, and the Lord Commander only pulled her closer to him._

**_I am yours,_ ** _he had whispered,_ **_In this life and the next._ **

_They had ridden back for the Wall, after that, the Lord Commander’s Night Queen wrapped in his own black cloak, as she had no clothing of her own. Upon arriving at the ice construct, the Black Gate spoke not the customary words, but seemed to speak to the Queen in a tongue of ice and snow, one that the Night’s King would learn from her early in their rule._

_Their return to the Nightfort was met with hostility, at first, but when the Lord Commander explained to his Brothers all he had learned, they reluctantly welcomed his Queen. In time, however, they came to love her as a mother, and a sister, and though some spoke of dark magic and sorcery, the few who knew the Night’s Queen spoke only of her prosperous rule._

_And prosperous it was. The Night’s Watch became powerful in a way it never had been before, as they offered the lives of deserters, criminals, and old folk who would be naught but burdens in Winter to the Old Gods and the cold gods of their Queen. And, indeed, the Night’s Queen ruled alongside her King from their Nightfort, and all was well._

_Until it was not._

_For the Lord Commander’s own brother, ignorant of the Pact or unwilling to see it through, had grown frightened of the power he now wielded, and sought to cast him down from the his throne. And so he marched on the Night’s Watch, aided from the other side of the Wall by King Joramun of the Free Folk, and together the two armies assaulted the Nightfort._

_Ill prepared to fend off such a host, and, in truth, unwilling to fight his brother, the Lord Commander dueled, and lost, to the King of Winter just below the walls of his keep._

_And for his loss, he died._

_In his death throes, the Lord Commander looked up to his mate who stood atop the battlements of the Nightfort, a cruel reversal of how they had met. The Lord Commander found himself fading, air burning in his lungs because he couldn’t breathe--_

* * *

\--and then he could.

The Nine-Hundred-and-Ninety-Eighth gasped as he came back to life, air flooding his lungs once again. For a moment, Jon panicked, and rightfully so. He was supposed to be _dead_ , how was he--

Then he registered the cold, soft hand cradling his cheek, and he relaxed.

Ignoring the frightened looks of the other men in the room, Satine, Tormund, and Edd, Jon turned over towards the arm, and the Lord Commander’s once-grey eyes met the gaze of his love’s dark ones.

The Night’s Queen smiled.

**_“Mine,"_** she whispered in her tongue, and Jon, cupping her hand in his, replied.

**_“Always.”_ **

* * *

The further north they rode, and the closer to Castle Black they got, Sansa felt more at peace. She didn’t even feel the cold, which she found slightly odd-- just by looking at Brienne and Podrick shivering in their cloaks she could tell it was unbearably cold.

It was strange, but calming. Almost as if the North was beckoning her, calling her towards the last of her family.

The calming presence fled her when, upon arriving at Castle Black, they set their eyes upon several _living_ Night’s Watchmen impaled on pikes just outside the gates to the keep. Some were screaming, others writhing in some futile attempt to alleviate the pain. The lucky ones were the ones who had succumbed to the pain and had fallen unconscious.

Brienne had wanted to turn around and ride as fast as possible away from it. “This is a cursed place, my lady. What kind of man would subject another to such a fate? This Jon Snow cannot be trusted upon to keep you safe if he orders such torture as this!”

But, Sansa had declined on the offer, strangely accepting of the atrocious act. “My brother is the Lord Commander currently, Brienne. If he did this, then it was for good reason.”

“My lady--”

“Enough, Brienne. I have nothing to fear of him. Jon will protect me.”

And yet, fear reigned supreme. Not from Sansa herself, but from the Black Brothers who garrisoned Castle Black. They opened the gate for them with no issue, and granted them entry, but all averted their eyes from her specifically. It was only when one of the Black Brothers introduced himself as Edd Tollett were they granted an explanation.

“Name’s Edd,” the man started, “and to explain the odd looks, the Lord Commander threatened to kill any man who looked at you wrong, Lady Sansa, and that is no threat to be taken lightly. He want's no repeat of Danny Flint, 'specially involving you.”

Focusing her gaze on him, Sansa could see that Edd feared as well, just like the others. _What could possibly frighten him so? Jon? Surely not…_

“Where is my brother, Ser Edd?” Sansa asked, and the mentioned Night’s Watchman froze momentarily, before sighing, and turning towards the main keep.

“This way, my lady.”

Somewhat apprehensive, Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick followed the Black Brother into Castle Black proper, before being led upwards to the Lord Commander’s solar. Upon reaching the door to said room, Edd turned back to them, and nodded. “He’s in here.” Rapping his knuckles against the hardwood, Edd knocked on the door almost reluctant. When the reply “Come in,” was heard, he opened the door and stood aside. “Lord Commander, your sister has arrived.”

Sansa had barely tread foot into the room before she was swept up in the embrace vaguely familiar arms, and behind her, she heard Brienne prepare to unsheathe her sword. She discreetly waved her hand behind her back, signaling that she was fine, and Brienne reluctantly backed down, and stepped out of the room.

By then, however, her concentration had faltered, because _oh gods, It’s him, I’m fine, I’m safe--_

“Sansa.”

Upon hearing the familiar (but deeper) baritones of Jon’s Northern burr, Sansa pulled back slightly to behold her brother. The two were silent as they beheld each other, and Sansa noted that his eyes, which had been Stark-grey once, now seemed a tad bit brighter, though she had no time to further examine that thought before Jon drew back slightly. 

“You've… gotten taller.” Jon broke the silence first, and Sansa’s lips curled slightly upwards. “You’re a tad bit smaller than I remember.” It was true; the last she had seen her half-brother, Jon had been close to her height. It seemed like it would stay that way, for Jon now stood half a head taller than her.

Jon chuckled at that, before tightening their embrace. “It’s good to see you, sister. We’ve much to talk about.” Their smiles faded into frowns, and Sansa nodded, because they did.

It was then that she noticed the women sitting on the Lord Commander’s bed, staring at her from beneath a dark cloak, ice-blue pupils leering out of dark eyes--

It was all Sansa could to hold back a scream when she realized the woman’s skin was _blue_.

She remembered Old Nan’s stories well enough.

Stumbling back slightly, she took two steps away from the bed, gaining Jon’s confused notice. Standing stock-still, Sansa attempted to ask him _what_ that was and why it was sitting on his bed, only managing it on the second try.

“J-Jon, who is-- _what_ is that?”

To her surprise (and apprehension) both Jon and the _very-much-not-human_ woman shared a look that spoke volumes, before Jon turned and pulled up two chairs, one for him and for Sansa. He sat down, and was silent for a moment, before turning back to her.

“Sit down, sister. There is much I must tell you.”

It was only then that Sansa realized her brother's eyes were bright blue.

Oddly enough, it didn't bother her.

Placing herself in the offered seat, she took a fortifying breath, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and gazing unflinchingly into Jon's blue eyes.

"Then tell me."

He did.

* * *

**_Bride of the 998th Lord Commander_ **


	2. Winter's Howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll add to this chapter later, since this is only half of it. But, it's been far too long, so here you go.

_ A cold gust. A winter wind. “He is here. We’ve run out of time. It must be done. It must be me.” _

_ A look of horror, face aghast. “Why must it be you?! I’ve already lost my family once-- I can’t lose you as well!.” _

_ A cold, soothing presence.  _ **_“There is no other. There is no choice.”_ **

_ A shared look. “Do you trust me, sister? _

_ A pause. “I… I do.” A hug. “Stay safe, brother.” _

_ A nod. “Do you doubt my skills, love?” _

_ A guilty look. _ **_“I… do not.”_ ** _ A short, passionate kiss. _ **_“Do not leave me again, please.”_ **

_ “I will return.” A solemn vow. “I am yours, in life and death. I shall not part from this world without you.” _

_ A frightened shared look, and a reluctant nod. _

_ “Then go,” said the sister. “Do what you must.” _

**_“Take what is yours,”_ ** _ said the wife.  _ **_“Reclaim what is ours.”_ **

_ “I shall,” said the hero. “I will not fail you.” _

_ And so Night’s King went. _

_ His foe held the might of Winter. _

_ He meant to take it back. _

* * *

Beneath the walls of Winterfell, from the crypts where they laid, the Kings of Winter rose.

The Starks of centuries past came with the darkening night, when the northern winds had passed and the mists had descended upon the ancient keep, they swarmed from the crypts of Winterfell wielding swords of iron and bronze, some with skeletal direwolves at their sides, and all of them with bright blue eyes.

They fell upon the Boltons and their allies with a cold vengeance, catching many of their men-at-arms and knights unawares and slaughtering them in their beds. It was the screams of those men that awoke the rest of the castle, and confusion and terror ran abundant. Boltons were hacked down as they lunged for their weapons, Freys tripped on the many corpses that littered the ground as they attempted to untangle themselves from the massacre, and the bannermen of those who supported the Boltons, like the Ryswells and Dustins, were put to the sword. Roose Bolton himself was dragged out of his bedchamber by several of the Winter Kings and was slowly fed alive to their wolves, and the leech lord died screaming, drowning in his own blood. Ramsay Snow was swarmed by a wave of dead men, and fought only until he realized that he was crossing swords with men who he had seen hacked down moments before, and the bastard turned and ran, leaving his fellow living men behind to take the fall, and that they did, only to rise again in service of the dead.

Ramsay was no coward. He was a pragmatic fellow. He knew what battles to fight and when to flee.

And so, Ramsay fled, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him, in a desperate attempt to grab a horse from the stables and ride out to the Dreadfort. To his credit, he did succeed in acquiring a steed, and upon doing so, instantly swung into its saddle and whipping at the reins, forcing the horse onwards, and made for Winterfell’s gates.

He did not get far. 

The Bastard of Bolton let out a hoarse scream when his steed fell beneath him, only barely managing to pull his legs from the stirrups and flinging himself off the horse before it crushed him.

Only, immediately after, he was swarmed by the living dead, men in Bolton livery grasping at his limbs and face, and Ramsay thrashed in a futile attempt to free himself from them.

He failed.

They did not harm him fatally, however, merely dragging him by horseback outside the walls of the Stark castle, where Ramsay spied a great army, shadowed by a great winter storm.

Ramsay was no coward, but even men like he could learn to be afraid.

As he was dragged closer to the lines of the dead, Ramsay’s struggles increased, though they did nothing to halt the stride of his captors. Then, at last, the dead finally dragged him before their masters, and Ramsay knew the faces of winter.

Dismounting from her own pale steed that stood beside her brother and his wife, Ramsay’s first bride smiled.

“Hello, husband.”

Blue eyes flashed ferally as the thing that had been Sansa Stark reached for him, and Ramsay Snow knew fear.

* * *

When the rider from Winterfell had been spotted, Stannis Baratheon had prepared himself for yet another battle in the snow. For who else could send a rider from the ancient keep but the Boltons and their allies, and for what reason could a message be sent but for his surrender?

And the Bolton army could not have come at a worse time-- for Stannis no longer worried for the fate of just his army, but for his wife and daughter as well.

They had come several nights ago, terrified, fleeing from Castle Black with such haste that several of the horses had died before they had even reached the Queenscrown. Even Lady Melisandre, who had always kept calm in the face of danger and death, had eyes filled with a mute horror, constantly glancing over her shoulder back North, and always keeping close to a fire when they arrived. 

At her blatant fear, Stannis had worried. The men from the South were talking as to what that meant, seeing that not even the flames could grant the Red Woman relief. The Northmen whispered to themselves in the Old Tongue, glancing superstitiously at the snowy skies. Selyse refused to speak of what had forced them to flee, only murmuring frantic prayers beneath her breath. Shireen had promptly buried herself in as many furs as she could find (several of which came from Stannis’ own quarters; no daughter of his would freeze to death before he did) and slept away the exhaustion the ride from Castle Black had wrought upon her. The men-at-arms and Knights he had left behind to protect his wife and daughter were scared out of their wits, and did not give the Stag King the straight answers he sought.

So, after much hesitation, Stannis went to the Lady Melisandre, who stared into the bonfire, surrounded by many other worshipers, took her aside (though not out of sight of the fire), and asked her one, simple question.

“Have the dead breached the Wall?”

And she gave one, simple answer in return.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Stannis stood there for a moment longer before turning on his heel and marching off to the hut he had taken as his own. Upon entering it, he sat down heavily upon the oak chair within. He had no choice now, did he? If the dead were coming, they would be slaughtered on an open field. Even with Lightbringer sheathed at his side, Stannis did not think himself enough to turn back the tide. To make a final stand, they would need fortifications. 

_ I need Winterfell. _

So he sent word to his commanders to prepare to march, and that his army had been preparing to do when the messenger arrived and a runner approached to inform him, face pale and eyes wide in fear.

He only understood why the runner had feared when he rode out to meet the messenger under the flag or parley.

For, sitting on a pale, dead horse, an Other awaited them.

  
  


Stannis’ escort had frozen, then, before quickly urging their King to return to camp and fortify the position, but Stannis refused.

_ The creature has come under Parley. It is aware of what it means. But for what reason has it come? _

It was only when they had reached within earshot of the Other that it opened its frosted lips and spoke.

**“The King of Winter invites you Winterfell under Parley,”** its voice rasped. **“Bread and Salt shall be offered to You and Yours, as per custom.”**

And though the others with him flinched, Stannis did not, though he tightened his grasp on Lightbringer’s pommel. “There is no King of Winter,” the Baratheon King announced back. “The Boltons are usurpers who unlawfully claim the Stark domain as their own. They serve the Lannisters and their get.”

“Aye, the King speaks true!” one of the escort, a Mountain Clan chieftain spoke up, though his defiant look wavered when the Other turned its attention to him and stared. There was silence for a moment as the Other studied the Flint chieftain, before urging his dead steed away from them and back to where he came. Before disappearing into the snows, however, the Other turned back and spoke one last time, this time, in the Old Tongue, and Lord Flint froze.

**_"Tha na Starks ann an Winterfell air na brataichean aca a thogail."_ **

The Flint sat still in his saddle before slowly nodding. _ “Bidh Fir na Beinne a ’freagairt na gairm,” _ he replied. 

Then the creature was gone, and with it, the terrifying cold.

There was a quietness that permeated for several more moments before Stannis wheeled his steed around. “See to your men. We march on Winterfell in the hour.”


End file.
